


The History of Sherlock Holmes

by strawberry_pie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Drugs, Firsts, Gen, History, Past, Police, Prequel, School, meetings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:37:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberry_pie/pseuds/strawberry_pie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everybody seems to know about the famous consulting detective and his doctor assistant, John Watson.  But, very few know the truth about Sherlock's beginnings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The History of Sherlock Holmes

Many people know of what became of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson after their fated meeting, and certainly those who have followed the Watson blog and read his autobiography know a good deal about the famous doctor and assistant.

However, very few people are aware of the true past of Sherlock Holmes.

In fact, even Mycroft, his own brother and the man who likely knows the most about the consulting detective, doesn't know all of Sherlock's secrets.

And, yet, if you read on, you'll find many well-hidden secrets regarding that oh so famous man with the deerstalker cap.

 

As a young boy, Sherlock had not been a popular child.  
His classmates had shunned him for his intellect, finding him 'creepy' and unwilling to play as they wanted.  
Instead of playing house, using the swing set, or running around with the other children, Sherlock much preferred activities such as dissecting dead animals to learn about their insides and what might have killed them, or, if he was able to keep the attention of another child, he would try to entice them into a game that his elder brother had taught him; a sort of deduction battle.  
However, that last game only served to confuse the other children, causing them to feel uncomfortable around him and deem him even more odd.  
It wasn't long before Sherlock gave up on the company of others; it was only a matter of weeks into his schooling that he became a loner.  
The only childhood friend that Sherlock had was Redbeard, a beloved and incredibly loyal Irish Setter who had adored him.

Later on on his primary years, after he'd become suspicious when a schoolboy had drowned in a local pool, thinking it a murder and having had attempted to get the police involved, his school peers became quite wary of him and excluded Sherlock entirely.  
Some of them had thought that the genius kid had simply wanted attention, others wondered if he was a little nuts, and still others figured that since Sherlock was so clever maybe he had murdered the kid and was trying to get attention for it while remaining innocent in the eyes of everyone.  
Whatever they thought, the other children wanted nothing to do with him.  
His teen years weren't so very different at first, spending much time alone, the relationship between his brother and himself strained yet strong.  
Of course, his poor average parents could not understand his situation and he did not wish to explain it.  
When he was fifteen, Sherlock began to smoke.  
Ordinary cigarettes were all he smoked at first, finding access to them easily enough.  
He was clever enough not to get caught, naturally; he only smoked where he wouldn't be seen by those who knew him, showered thoroughly afterwards, brushed his teeth and used mouthwash, before changing into fresh clothes.  
His parents had never found out.  
Of course, Sherlock didn't stick to just plain old cigarettes.  
After a while, he required something with more kick, and he moved on to marijuana.  
Now, this was the beginning of his lesser known drug habit; certainly, some of his more devoted 'fans' are aware of the fact, however most people haven't the faintest that such a thing ever occurred.  
The marijuana was a gift to Sherlock.  
His thoughts had always raced, sometimes out of control, spiraling in such a torrent in his brain that it was nearly painful. This often happened when he was younger and less able to control it to some extent.  
The drug dulled his mind, let him experience a little peace.  
It didn't take long for Mycroft to figure out what was going on, not that he told anyone about it.  
Still, he gave his brother a stern talking to, making certain to fully explain the ramifications in partaking of such a substance.  
Not that Sherlock heeded the warning. Mycroft hadn't expected him to.  
Sherlock had always had a somewhat rebellious streak within him, and when he wanted something, he generally managed to find a way to bend whatever situation to his advantage.  
Neither their mother, nor their father, had discovered the marijuana habit, and once Sherlock had gone away to university, he had moved onto far stronger drugs.  
He had tried cocaine, methamphetamine, a variety of downers, acid... Sherlock tried a whole whack of different illegal substances, and had even ended up nearly getting arrested for it.  
Somehow, he had talked his way out of it, and so there was nothing on his permanent record.  
Throughout his university schooling, he kept using, doing his best to dull his racing mind and enjoy being as close to normal as he could.  
Sherlock felt that his intellect was more of a burden than anything else; he couldn't relate to other people, couldn't even enjoy an average film due to the sheer unrealistic facets and boredom it incited, put most people off (was instantly hated by many, in fact), and had no idea what he was going to do with his life.  
The mere idea of a desk job, or some other mundane career, was enough to make Sherlock want to give up.  
Mycroft had a minor position in the government, and had encouraged Sherlock to join him in such a career.  
Government, like many other things, bored Sherlock, and so he had refused.

He had drifted through his late school years, passing his courses with ease.  
Shortly after graduating, Sherlock had ended up with a bad batch of heroin and had ended up in the ICU.  
He had gone into a deep coma, and the doctors weren't even sure that he would pull through.  
It was touch and go for a while, and just when most were giving up any hope, Sherlock eased out of it.  
His mother had been furious with him, hugging him and crying and shouting, his father watching him in utter relief.  
Mycroft had been at work, though when he did come to visit he seemed different than before.  
"If you dare to so much as touch drugs again, I might just kill you myself." Mycroft said in a soft, but very serious tone.  
"Scared you, I take it?" Sherlock asked, only half-caring.  
He nearly wished that he hadn't come out of it.  
Mycroft's eyes flashed.  
"Brother mine, despite all outward appearances, I do care a great deal about you." He admitted. "Should you ever touch drugs again, I assure you that you will live to regret it."  
Sherlock blinked.  
Mycroft had never been one for sentiment, encouraging Sherlock to be the same way, and hearing him express his feelings like this was quite unexpected.  
"I trust that you will refrain from partaking in such illicit substances from now on." Mycroft stated with just a hint of a threatening tone.  
"Yes, all right." Sherlock agreed, sounding cranky, staring into his brother's eyes.  
"Good." Mycroft replied, tapping an umbrella tip on the tiled floor.  
Sherlock glanced at the umbrella with a raised eyebrow.  
"Since when do you carry an umbrella?" Sherlock asked with a hint of amusement.  
It wasn't as though Mycroft would walk through the rain unless necessary, and since this hospital had underground parking it was incredibly unlikely that he'd needed to use one.  
"Since I had a specialised one ordered in last week." Mycroft answered, looking down at it.  
Sherlock looked at the umbrella, still a little hazy, trying to deduce what would make this such a coveted item for his brother.  
Mycroft gave him a chance to figure it out, before pressing a small release button below the curved handle, and pulling out a thin yet sturdy sword.  
"They were quite popular in the late 1800's. It wasn't easy to find a reliable craftsman to make it for me, but it was well worth the effort." He stated, sheathing the incredibly sharp weapon.  
Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes.  
Mycroft always did like a bit too much pomp for his taste.  
After feeling his mobile vibrate, Mycroft reached into his inner jacket pocket and retrieved his phone to read a text.  
"Yes, well, I'm required back at work; you will rest and cooperate with the hospital staff." Mycroft instructed, knowing that Sherlock preferred not to follow the rules.  
"Of course, brother dear." Sherlock replied near-mockingly, though he didn't really mean the tone.  
Just as Mycroft cared about him and didn't care to show it, Sherlock was the same.  
As his brother was about to leave the room, Sherlock called his name.  
"I'm sorry." He said truthfully, and Mycroft turned around only momentarily.  
"Yes, I know." He stated softly, his face sombre. "You should be."  
With that, Mycroft left the room and Sherlock was alone.

 

After being released from hospital, having refused to come home at the request of his parents, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what to do.  
He'd ended up renting a flat near Piccadilly from a rather brusque old man that stank of scotch.  
The flat was a bit dingy and small, and needed some repairs, but it was his and he didn't mind too much.  
The landlord's wife was a sweet old lady who'd offered him freshly baked cookies the day that he'd moved in.  
Sherlock had accepted the small plate with a thank-you, thinking it a bit odd that she was so warm towards him; very few people had ever shown him such kindness while meaning it.

He'd spent his first few weeks there mainly inside in seclusion, reading and performing the odd experiment.  
Then, one day, he ran across a rather intriguing article in the morning newspaper; a so-called suicide by lethal injection.  
The few facts presented in the column were enough for him to see that it was most definitely a murder.  
He was bored, and there was nothing else to do.  
Why let the police know that they were wrong? Because, he could.  
The police were getting paid to to their jobs, and so they ought to be performing their duties better than this.  
Sherlock got out of his chair, went into his bedroom, and changed into his day clothes from his blue dressing gown.  
He ran his fingers through his messy curls, detangling them just a little, before slipping his shoes on, grabbing his keys and leaving.

 

Down at the police station, the front staff was refusing to listen.  
He had expected this. Many people preferred to ignore him, and he didn't especially get along with police.  
A man with silvering hair had been watching the altercation unfold from the sidelines, listening intently.  
"Look, I don't care who you are, you can't just walk in off the street and tell us how to do our jobs!" The woman told him, having had enough and getting ready to have him escorted out.  
"Well, somebody ought to." Sherlock shot back calmly, not backing down.  
As the woman was opening her mouth to say something else, the man who had been watching stepped in.  
"I've got this, Allington." He said in a Cockney tone. "I wanted to talk to him, anyway."  
"If you don't mind, of course." He said, taking a swallow of cheap coffee.  
He went over to the door and opened it, and Sherlock entered.  
The man led him down a narrow hallway and into a decent office that was tastefully decorated, and offered him a seat after closing the door.

"I'm D.I. Lestrade; you're under no obligation to say anything and are free to leave at any time." The policeman introduced himself. "I couldn't help but overhear what you told the front."  
Sherlock watched him, his piercing gaze not bothering Lestrade at all.  
"You don't believe that it's a suicide, yourself." Sherlock said, having noted that shortly after noticing him listening in earlier.  
"Not really, no." He admitted. "There's nothing that really points to it being murder, but I've got this feeling... Call it police intuition, what have you, but it just doesn't feel like a suicide to me. Of course, that doesn't leave this room."  
Sherlock gave a minuscule smile.  
"'Nothing really points to it being murder'..." He paraphrased in disbelief, clasping his hands in his narrow lap.  
The tragic stupidity of the average human confounded him much of the time.  
It seemed impossible that they could see so much and continuously remain ignorant of the bulk of it.  
"The man was afflicted severe arthritis, which, going by the photograph, had crippled him, therefore causing him to be incapable of lifting his hands any higher than his lower chest. Ask anyone that knew him in his recent years and I'm entirely confident they will confirm that. Bearing that in mind, does it make sense to you that the injection site for the toxin would be located just above the right clavicle?" Sherlock asked, thinking that only the idiot criminals must end up in jail due to the sheer incompetence plaguing the police force.  
Lestrade frowned.  
"And, how do you get that from a photo, exactly?" He questioned curiously, an eyebrow raised.  
Sherlock let out a bit of a sigh.  
"The man is leaning forward and is hunched in the very specific way that only arthritis affects a person, not only that, but the way that the shoulders are positioned it's completely obvious that the shoulders and arms are badly affected, and that the posture is permanent." He explained a bit impatiently.  
Lestrade nodded slowly, not sure whether or not to be taken aback at this man's attitude.  
"Anything else?" He asked, listening carefully.  
Whether or not this was true, it was interesting enough. And, it might be well worth his time to check out.  
Sherlock pointed out a few other valid reasons why this was not a suicide, needing to explain things more than he would like, but still taking the time to do it.  
Lestrade exited the office for a few minutes, making a couple of phone calls.

After coming back, he seemed impressed.  
"Well, the victim's daughter was able to back up what you said about the arthritis and that... Turns out you were right." Lestrade told him. "Which means that we're both right about this being a murder."  
Sherlock blinked in a bored fashion.  
It wasn't as though it was breaking news that he was right. It was a rare occasion when he was wrong.  
It did happen, naturally, but not very often at all.  
"Now, the other things you mentioned... You seem to know quite a bit about the situation. A little too much, don't you think?" Lestrade queried, feeling a hint of suspicion.  
"No more than I observed from the article in the paper." Sherlock said plainly, getting up from the padded wooden chair.  
Lestrade wondered how the entire team assigned to the case had missed something so vital.  
He was glad that it wasn't his team; he expected far better of his personnel and would be completely ashamed should something like that ever occur with them.  
"Right, well, I'll pass that on to the appropriate people and we'll get on it. Thanks for coming in." Lestrade told him.  
He slid a pad of paper and a pen across the desk. "If you would just write your pertinents down for me, please." He requested politely, and Sherlock obliged.  
Sherlock then got up from his seat, shook the offered hand, and was shown the way out.

 

A few weeks went by, and two other victims had been discovered having died in the exact same way; a toxic injection delivered about a half inch above the right clavicle.  
The police were working to find the killer, or killers, without much luck.  
The cases had been given over to Lestrade, since he had brought to light the faux pas regarding the initial incident.  
Not that he was getting very close to a solution.  
After a third death, despite it being highly irregular, out of desperation he had chosen to contact the man who had brought his attention to the mistakes.  
Sherlock had agreed to come in, and they'd discussed the matter at hand.  
"You want me to locate the killer for you." Sherlock summed up a little tonelessly, looking down at the shorter man.  
Lestrade cleared his throat.  
"No, no, that's not exactly what I'm asking." He corrected, wanting this to be perfectly clear. "I'd like for you to maybe fill us in on what we might've missed, seeing as how you're so observant."  
Sherlock thought about this for a few seconds.  
"I'll need to see the bodies." He informed Lestrade, who began to balk.  
"The bodies could give me much of what I need to know. There may be numerous clues that have been overlooked which could lead to the murderer." He explained, hands tucked into his first Belstaff 'Milford' coat pockets.  
Lestrade didn't like this.  
"Look, I can't go 'round giving civilians access to morgues like that." He said disagreeably. "I can get you photos and a copy of the autopsy report, but other than that..."  
"You're not supposed to bring civilians in on a consulting basis, either, and yet here we are." Sherlock pointed out. "Now, photos aren't going to do me much good, I need to be able to search for myself. If you want my help, you will need to make some concessions."  
Lestrade was quiet for a minute, before he relented.  
"Let me see what I can do." He said, and he made a phone call.  
When he was done, he put his phone away. "I can give you a half hour, which gives you ten minutes for each body. That's all."  
Sherlock nodded. "Ample time." He said agreeably, and they headed to St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

 

Of course, that was where he'd inevitably met Miss Molly Hooper, though at that time she had been working as a part-time assistant.  
Looking over the bodies, there was one other thing besides the injection site which each corpse had: one distinctive scratch on the bottom of the left big toe.  
Taking out a pocket magnifier for a better look, Sherlock noted nothing in particular that stood out in any way, other than that each scratch was made using the same sharp instrument.  
It would have been something small and quite sharp...  
"Okay, that's time. Wrap it up." Lestrade ordered, and Sherlock made a few final mental notes and left the morgue with the D.I.  
He wrote everything he'd gleaned from the experience down for Lestrade, though it didn't seem to be all that much.  
Even so, Sherlock felt confident that the scratches would end up being a major clue.

It wasn't long before Sherlock grew bored with following instructions and playing by the rules; he had soon decided to go after the criminal himself.  
Sherlock possessed the knowledge of what to look for, and he was skilled in self-defense, so he was more than prepared.  
Sitting around and waiting for the police to finally get moving had proven to be exceptionally aggravating.  
It wasn't because finding the killer would give the victims families closure, it wasn't for praise or fame. No, Sherlock had found himself hunting down a criminal simply because he was bored.  
Well, that, and it helped to keep his mind occupied. That in turn kept his thoughts from straying to drugs, and the longing for them slowly began to curb itself.  
Within two days of his putting his full effort into the case, Sherlock had managed to corner the middle aged Caucasian male responsible for the four slaughters.  
Lestrade hadn't been too happy with Sherlock's vigilante behaviour, but couldn't help being rather impressed by the results.  
And, as you might guess, Lestrade had found an irreplaceable consulting detective in Sherlock, beginning what you know of the relationship between them today.

 

Years went by, and Sherlock had kept clean and sober, staying in his dingy little flat and managing well enough.  
He and his landlady became something of friends, and he had even been able to rid her of her cruel and abusive husband.  
Sherlock had continued his work with the police, and had begun taking on clients of his own.  
It had kept him busy, and while it was often something dull like a missing ring that potential clients came to him with. However, much to Sherlock's utter delight, there had been the odd client who had come to him about a beheading, or something that was seemingly impossible. These were the cases that enthralled him to no end.  
And, he did this for a number of years on his own.  
But, after Mrs. Hudson, his landlady, had sold the building that he was residing in for a nicer one on Baker Street, the entire property went downhill due to poor management.  
And, after a couple of years, he'd decided to leave that place for something better.  
Living alone was fine and dandy, but rent was high and it seemed more rational to locate a flatmate to share the cost of housing.  
And, he'd ended up telling an acquaintance of his that he was in the market for a roommate, though of course nobody would want to have him as one, and that acquaintance had passed that along to a certain John Watson.

 

And the rest, as they say, is history.


End file.
